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LONDON  LYRICS 


One  hundred  and  four  copies 

printed  from  type  for  subscribers. 

Four  on  veilum. 

Six  on  plated  paper. 

Ninety-four  on  Holland  paper, 
of  which  this  is 


LONDON  LYRICS 


BY 

FREDERICK  LOCKER 


n 

,2 
1 

f 

s 

NEW  YORK 
Printed  for  the  Book  Fellow's  Club 
1883 


63869 


OA  /  for  the  Poet-  Voice  that  swells 

To  lofty  Truths,  or  noble  curses  — 

/  only  wear  the  cap  and  bells. 

And  yet  some  tears  are  in  my  verses. 

Softly  I  trill  my  sparrow  reed. 

Pleased  if  but  One  should  like  the  twitter: 

Humbly  I  lay  it  down  to  heed 

A  music  or  a  minstrel  fitter. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

At  her  Window  ,   i 

Rotten  Row   3 

To  My  Grandmother   6 

The  Unrealized  Ideal   10 

A  Human  Skull   11 

My  Neighbour  Rose   14 

The  Widow's  Mite   17 

St.  James's  Street       .      .      .      .      .      .      .  19 

Gertrude's  Necklace   22 

Gertrude's  Glove   24 

Bramble-Rise     .   25 

Beggars   29 

A  Garden  Lyric   32 

The  Old  Oak-Tree  at  Hatfield  Broadoak    ,      .  35 

On  an  Old  Muff       .   40 

The  Pilgrims  of  Pall  Mall   44 

LouLou  and  her  Cat   47 

The  Skeleton  in  the  Cupboard   50 

vu 


viii  Contents. 

PAGE 

Geraldine   .      .  .53 

Circumstance    56 

At  Hurlingham  58 

Piccadilly       .      .      .      .     ■  61 

An  Invitation  to  Rome,  and  the  Reply     .       .  .64 

It  Might  Have  Been  7^ 

To  My  Mistress  73 

The  Bear  Pit  75 

A  NICE  Correspondent!   77 

A  Rhyme  of  One  80 

Any  Poet  to  His  Love  82 

Little  Dinky   83 

My  Song  86 

The  Jester's  Moral  88 

To  Lina  Oswald  93 

Reply  to  a  Letter  Enclosing  a  Lock  of  Hair     .  95 

The  Cuckoo  99 

Notes  -  loi 


AT   HER  WINDOW. 

Ah,  mbtstrel,  how  strange  is 

The  carol  you  sing! 
Let  Psyche,  who  ranges 

The  garden  of  spring, 
Remember  the  cJianges 

December  will  brifig. 

BEATING  heart!  we  come  again 
Where  my  love  reposes : 
This  is  Mabel's  window-pane; 
These  are  Mabel's  roses. 

Is  she  nested  ?    Does  she  kneel 

In  the  twilight  stilly ; 
Lily  clad  from  throat  to  heel. 

She,  my  virgin  lily  ? 
I  I 


<iAt  Her  Window. 


Soon  the  wan,  the  wistful  stars, 
Fading,  will  forsake  her; 

Elves  of  light,  on  beamy  bars. 
Whisper  then,  and  wake  her. 

Let  this  friendly  pebble  plead 

At  her  flowery  grating. 
If  she  hear  me  will  she  heed  ? 

Mabel,  I  am  waiting. 

Mabel  will  be  decked  anon, 
Zoned  in  bride's  apparel ; 

Happy  zone  !  —  Oh  hark  to  yon 
Passion-shaken  carol ! 

Sing  thy  song,  thou  tranced  thrush. 
Pipe  thy  best,  thy  clearest ;  — 

Hush,  her  lattice  moves,  O  hush  — 
Dearest  Mabel! — dearest  .   .  , 


ROTTEN  ROW. 


I HOPE  I'm  fond  of  much  that's  good, 
As  well  as  much  that's  gay ; 
I'd  like  the  country  if  I  could; 

I  love  the  Park  in  May : 
And  when  I  ride  in  Rotten  Row, 
I  wonder  why  they  call'd  it  so. 

A  Hvely  scene  on  turf  and  road; 

The  crowd  is  bravely  drest: 
The  Ladies'  Mile  has  overflow 'd, 

The  chairs  are  in  request : 
The  nimble  air,  so  soft,  so  clear. 
Hardly  can  stir  a  ringlet  here. 

I'll  halt  beneath  the  pleasant  trees, 

And  drop  my  bridle-rein. 
And,  quite  alone,  indulge  at  ease 

The  philosophic  vein : 
I'll  moralise  on  all  I  see  — 
Yes,  it  was  all  arranged  for  me! 
3 


4 


gotten  %ow. 


Forsooth,  and  on  a  livelier  spot 

The  sunbeam  never  shines. 
Fair  ladies  here  can  talk  and  trot 

With  statesmen  and  divines  : 
Could  I  have  chosen,  I'd  have  been 
A  Duke,  a  Beauty,  or  a  Dean. 

What  grooms  !    What  gallant  gentlemen  ! 

What  well-appointed  hacks  ! 
What  glory  in  their  pace,  and  then 

What  beauty  on  their  backs! 
My  Pegasus  w^ould  never  flag 
If  weighted  as  my  lady's  nag. 

But  where  is  now  the  courtly  troop 

That  once  rode  laughing  by? 
I  miss  the  curls  of  Cantilupe, 

The  laugh  of  Lady  Di : 
They  all  could  laugh  from  night  to  morn. 
And  Time  has  laugh'd  them  all  to  scorn. 

I  then  could  frolic  in  the  van 
With  dukes  and  dandy  earls ; 

Then  I  was  thought  a  nice  young  man 
By  rather  nice  young  girls ! 

I've  half  a  mind  to  join  Miss  Browne, 

And  try  one  canter  up  and  down. 


f 


%otten  %ow. 


Ah,  no  —  I'll  linger  here  a  while, 
And  dream  of  days  of  yore ; 

For  me  bright  eyes  have  lost  the  smile. 
The  sunny  smile  they  wore :  — 

Perhaps  they  say,  what  I'll  allow. 

That  I'm  not  quite  so  handsome  now. 


TO  MY  GRANDMOTHER. 


(SUGGESTED  BY  A  PICTURE  BY  MR.  ROMNEY.) 

Under  the  elm  a  rtisUc  seat 
Was  merriest  Susan's  pet  retreat 
To  merry  make. 

HIS  relative  of  mine, 
Was  she  seventy-and-nine 
When  she  died  ? 
By  the  canvas  may  be  seen 
How  she  look'd  at  seventeen, 
As  a  bride. 

6 


To  [My  Grandmother, 


Beneath  a  summer  tree, 
Her  maiden  reverie 

Has  a  charm ; 
Her  ringlets  are  in  taste ; 
What  an  arm  !  .  .  what  a  waist 

For  an  arm  ! 

With  her  bridal-wreath,  bouquet, 
Lace  farthingale,  and  gay 

Falbala, — 
Were  Romney's  limning  true, 
What  a  lucky  dog  were  you, 
Grandpapa ! 

Her  lips  are  sweet  as  love ; 
They  are  parting !    Do  they  move 

Are  they  dumb  ? 
Her  eyes  are  blue,  and  beam 
Beseechingly,  and  seem 

To  say,  "  Come  !  " 

What  funny  fancy  slips 

From  atween  these  cherry  lips  ? 

Whisper  me, 
Sweet  sorceress  in  paint, 
What  canon  says  I  mayn't 

Marry  thee? 


To  zMy  Grandmother. 


That  good-for-nothing  Time 
Has  a  confidence  sublime ! 

When  I  first 
Saw  this  lady,  in  my  youth, 
Her  winters  had,  forsooth, 

Done  their  worst. 

Her  locks,  as  white  as  snow, 
Once  shamed  the  swarthy  crow 

By-and-by 
That  fowl's  avenging  sprite 
Set  his  cruel  foot  for  spite 

Near  her  eye. 

Her  rounded  form  was  lean. 
And  her  silk  was  bombazine : 

Well  I  wot 
With  her  needles  would  she  sit 
And  for  hours  would  she  knit,- 

Would  she  not? 

Ah,  perishable  clay; 

Her  charms  had  dropt  away 

One  by  one : 
But  if  she  heaved  a  sigh 
With  a  burthen,  it  was,  "Thy 

Will  be  done." 


7o  [My  Grandmother, 


In  travail,  as  in  tears, 
With  the  fardel  of  her  years 

Overprest, 
In  mercy  she  was  borne 
Where  the  weary  and  the  worn 

Are  at  rest. 

O,  if  you  now  are  there, 
And  sweet  as  once  you  were, 

Grandmamma, 
This  nether  world  agrees 
'Twill  all  the  better  please 

Grandpapa. 


THE  UNREALIZED  IDEAL. 


only  love  is  always  near, — 
In  country  or  in  town 
I  see  her  twinkling  feet,  I  hear 
The  whisper  of  her  gown. 

She  foots  it  ever  fair  and  young, 
Her  locks  are  tied  in  haste, 

And  one  is  o'er  her  shoulder  flung. 
And  hangs  below  her  waist. 

She  ran  before  me  in  the  meads; 

And  down  this  world-worn  track 
She  leads  me  on ;  but  while  she  leads 

She  never  gazes  back. 

And  yet  her  voice  is  in  my  dreams, 
To  witch  me  more  and  more; 

That  wooing  voice !    Ah  me,  it  seems 
Less  near  me  than  of  yore. 

Lightly  I  sped  when  hope  was  high, 
And  youth  beguiled  the  chase, — 

I  follow,  follow  still;  but  I 
Shall  never  see  her  face. 

10 


A  HUMAN  SKULL. 


HUMAN  Skull !  I  bought  it  passing  cheap, 
Indeed  'twas  dearer  to  its  first  employer ! 
I  thought  mortality  did  well  to  keep 

Some  mute  memento  of  the  Old  Destroyer. 

Time  was,  some  may  have  prized  its  blooming  skin ; 

Here  lips  were  woo'd,  perhaps,  in  transport  tender ; 
Some  may  have  chuck'd  what  was  a  dimpled  chin, 

And  never  had  my  doubt  about  its  gender. 


12  Human  Skull 


Did  she  live  yesterday  or  ages  back  ? 

What  colour  were  the  eyes  when  bright  and  waking  ? 
And  were  your  ringlets  fair,  or  brown,  or  black. 

Poor  little  head !  that  long  has  done  with  aching  ? 

It  may  have  held  (to  shoot  some  random  shots) 
Thy  brains,  Eliza  Fry !  or  Baron  Byron's ; 

The  wits  of  Nelly  Gwynn,  or  Doctor  Watts, — 
Two  quoted  bards.    Two  philanthropic  sirens. 

But  this  I  trust  is  clearly  understood; 

If  man  or  woman,  if  adored  or  hated  — 
Whoever  own'd  this  Skull  was  not  so  good, 

Nor  quite  so  bad  as  many  may  have  stated. 

Who  love  can  need  no  special  type  of  Death ; 

Death  steals  his  icy  hand  where  Love  reposes ; 
Alas  for  love,  alas  for  fleeting  breath, — 

Immortelles  bloom  with  Beauty's  bridal  roses. 

O  true-love  mine,  what  lines  of  care  are  these  ? 

The  heart  still  lingers  with  its  golden  hours. 
But  fading  tints  are  on  the  chestnut-trees, 

And  where  is  all  that  lavish  wealth  of  flowers? 


zA  Human  Skull.  13 


The  end  is  near.    Life  lacks  what  once  it  gave, 
Yet  death  has  promises  that  call  for  praises ; 

A  very  worthless  rogue  may  dig  the  grave, 

But  hands  unseen  will  dress  the  turf  with  daisies. 

i860. 


MY  NEIGHBOUR  ROSE. 


HOUGH  walls  but  thin  our  hearths  divide, 
We're  strangers,  dwelling  side  by  side ; 
How  gaily  all  your  days  must  glide 

Unvex'd  by  labour. 
I've  seen  you  weep,  and  could  have  wept ; 
I've  heard  you  sing,  (and  might  have  slept!) 
Sometimes  I  hear  your  chimney  swept. 
My  charming  neighbour ! 

Your  pets  are  mine.    Pray  what  may  ail 
The  pup,  once  eloquent  of  tail  ? 
I  wonder  why  your  nightingale 

Is  mute  at  sunset. 
Your  puss,  demure  and  pensive,  seems 
Too  fat  to  mouse.    Much  she  esteems 
Yon  sunny  wall,  and,  dozing,  dreams 

Of  mice  she  once  ate. 

Our  tastes  agree.    I  dote  upon 
Frail  jars,  turquoise  and  celadon, 
The  Wedding  March  of  Mendelssohn, 
And  Penseroso. 

S4 


D^y  <J^eighhour  %ose. 


When  sorely  tempted  to  purloin 
Your  puld  of  Marc  Antoine, 
Fair  virtue  doth  fair  play  enjoin, 
Fair  Virtuoso! 

At  times  an  Ariel,  cruel-kind, 

Will  kiss  my  lips,  and  stir  your  blind. 

And  whisper  low,  "  She  hides  behind ; 

Thou  art  not  lonely." 
The  tricksy  sprite  would  erst  assist 
At  hush'd  Verona's  moonlight  tryst; — 
Sweet  Capulet,  thou  wert  not  kiss'd 

By  light  winds  only. 

I  miss  the  simple  days  of  yore, 

When  two  long  braids  of  hair  you  wore, 

And  ckai  botte  was  wonder'd  o'er 

In  corner  cosy. 
But  gaze  not  back  for  tales  like  those : 
It's  all  in  order,  I  suppose; 
The  Bud  is  now  a  blooming  RoSE, — 

A  rosy-posy! 

Indeed,  farewell  to  bygone  years ; 
How  wonderful  the  change  appears; 
For  curates  now,  and  cavaliers, 

In  turn  perplex  you : 
The  last  are  birds  of  feather  gay, 
Who  swear  the  first  are  birds  of  prey; 
I'd  scare  them  all  had  I  my  way, 

But  that  might  vex  you. 


[My  [J^eighbour  %ose. 


Sometimes  I've  envied,  it  is  true, 
That  hero,  joyous  twenty-two, 
Who  sent  bouquets  and  billets  doux, 

And  wore  a  sabre. 
The  rogue !  how  close  his  arm  he  wound 
About  her  waist,  who  never  frown'd. 
He  loves  you,  Child.    Now,  is  he  bound 
•      To  love  my  neighbour  ? 

The  bells  are  ringing.    As  is  meet. 
White  favours  fascinate  the  street. 
Sweet  faces  greet  me,  rueful-sweet 

'Twixt  tears  and  laughter: 
They  crowd  the  door  to  see  her  go. 
The  bliss  of  one  brings  many  woe ; 
Oh,  kiss  the  bride,  and  I  will  throw 

The  old  shoe  after. 

What  change  in  one  short  afternoon. 
My  own  dear  neighbour  gone,—  so  soon ! 
Is  yon  pale  orb  her  honey-moon 

Slow  rising  hither  ? 
O  Lady,  wan  and  marvellous  ! 
How  oft  have  we  held  commune  thus ; 
Sweet  memory  shall  dwell  with  us, — 

And  joy  go  with  her. 


1861. 


THE  WIDOW'S  MITE. 


WIDOW— she  had  only  one! 
A  puny  and  decrepit  son; 
But,  day  and  night, 
Though  fretful  oft,  and  weak  and  small, 
A  loving  child,  he  was  her  all  — 

The  Widow's  Mite. 
3  ^7 


i8  The  Widow's  (Mite, 

I 

The  Widow's  Mite — ay,  so  sustain'd, 
She  battled  onward,  nor  complain'd 

Tho'  friends  were  fewer : 
And  while  she  toil'd  for  daily  fare, 
A  little  crutch  upon  the  stair 

Was  music  to  her. 

I  saw  her  then, —  and  now  I  see 
That,  though  resign'd  and  cheerful,  she 

Has  sorrow'd  much : 
She  has.  He  gave  it  tenderly, 
Much  faith ;  and,  carefully  laid  by, 

A  little  crutch. 

1856. 


ST. 


JAMES'S  STREET. 


(see  note.) 


T.  JAMES'S  STREET,  of  classic  fame, 
For  Fashion  still  is  seen  there : 


St.  James's  Street  ?    I  know  the  name, 
I  almost  think  I've  been  there  ! 

Why,  that's  where  Sacharissa  sigh'd 
When  Waller  read  his  ditty ; 

Where  Byron  lived,  and  Gibbon  died, 
And  Alvanley  was  witty. 

A  famous  street  I    To  yonder  Park 

Young  Churchill  stole  in  class-time; 
Come,  gaze  on  fifty  men  of  mark. 

And  then  recall  the  past  time. 
The  plats  at  White's,  the  play  at  Crock's, 

The  bumpers  to  Miss  Gunning; 
The  bonhomie  of  Charlie  Fox, 

And  Selwyn's  ghastly  funning. 


The  dear  old  street  of  clubs '  and  cribs, 
As  north  and  south  it  stretches, 
19 


St.  James's  Street. 


Still  seems  to  smack  of  Rolliad  squibs, 

And  Gillray's  fiercer  sketches ; 
The  quaint  old  dress,  the  grand  old  style. 

The  motSf  the  racy  stories ; 
The  wine,  the  dice,  the  wit,  the  bile  — 

The  hate  of  Whigs  and  Tories. 

At  dusk,  when  I  am  strolling  there, 

Dim  forms  will  rise  around  me ; — 
Lepel  flits  past  me  in  her  chair. 

And  Congreve's  airs  astound  me ! 
And  once  Nell  Gwynne,  a  frail  young  sprite, 

Look'd  kindly  when  I  met  her ; 
I  shook  my  head,  perhaps, — but  quite 

Forgot  to  quite  forget  her. 

The  street  is  still  a  lively  tomb 

For  rich,  and  gay,  and  clever; 
The  crops  of  dandies  bud  and  bloom, 

And  die  as  fast  as  ever. 
Now  gilded  youth  loves  cutty  pipes, 

And  slang  that's  rather  scaring, — 
It  can't  approach  its  prototypes 

In  taste,  or  tone,  or  bearing. 

In  Brummell's  day  of  buckle  shoes, 

Lawn  cravats,  and  roll  collars. 
They'd  fight,  and  woo,  and  bet  —  and  lose 

Like  gentlemen  and  scholars  : 


St.  fames 's  Street. 


21 


I'm  glad  young  men  should  go  the  pace, 

I  half  forgive  O/d  Rapid; 
These  louts  disgrace  their  name  and  race- — 

So  vicious  and  so  vapid ! 

Worse  times  may  come.    Bon  ioUy  indeed, 

Will  then  be  quite  forgotten, 
And  all  vi^e  much  revere  will  speed 

From  ripe  to  worse  than  rotten : 
Let  grass  then  sprout  between  yon  stones, 

And  owls  then  roost  at  Boodle's, 
For  Echo  will  hurl  back  the  tones 
Of  screaming  Yankee  Doodles. 

I  love  the  haunts  of  Old  Cockaigne, 

Where  wit  and  wealth  were  squander'd ; 
The  halls  that  tell  of  hoop  and  train. 

Where  grace  and  rank  have  wander 'd ; 
Those  halls  where  ladies  fair  and  leal 

First  ventured  to  adore  me !  — 
Something  of  that  old  love  I  feel 

For  this  old  street  before  me. 


1867. 


GERTRUDE'S  NECKLACE. 


S  Gerty  skipt  from  babe  to  girl, 
Her  necklace  lengthen'd,  pearl  by  pearl ; 
Year  after  year  it  grew,  and  grew, 
For  every  birthday  gave  her  two. 
Her  neck  is  lovely,  soft  and  fair, 
And  now  her  necklace  glimmers  there. 

So  cradled,  let  it  sink  and  rise, 
And  all  her  graces  emblemize. 

22 


Gertrude's  (N^ecklace, 


Perchance  this  pearl,  without  a  speck, 
Once  was  as  warm  on  Sappho's  neck; 
Where  are  the  happy,  twilight  pearls 
That  braided  Beatrice's  curls  ? 

Is  Gerty  loved?  — Is  Gerty  loth? 
Or,  if  she's  either,  is  she  both  ? 
She's  fancy  free,  but  sweeter  far 
Than  many  plighted  maidens  are  : 
Will  Gerty  smile  us  all  away, 
And  still  be  Gerty?    Who  can  say? 

But  let  her  wear  her  precious  toy, 
And  I'll  rejoice  to  see  her  joy : 
Her  bauble's  only  one  degree 
Less  frail,  less  fugitive  than  we; 
For  time,  ere  long,  will  snap  the  skein 
And  scatter  all  the  pearls  again. 


GERTRUDE'S  GLOVE. 


Elle  avaii  au  bout  de  ses  manches 
Une  paire  de  mains  si  blanches! 

LIPS  of  a  kid-skin  deftly  sewn, 
A  scent  as  through  her  garden  blown, 
The  tender  hue  that  clothes  her  dove, 
All  these,  and  this  is  Gerty's  glove. 

A  glove  but  lately  dofft,  for  look  — 

It  keeps  the  happy  shape  it  took 

Warm  from  her  touch  !  What  gave  the  glow  ? 

And  where's  the  mould  that  shaped  it  so? 

It  clasp'd  the  hand,  so  pure,  so  sleek. 
Where  Gerty  rests  a  pensive  cheek, 
The  hand  that  when  the  light  wind  stirs, 
Reproves  those  laughing  locks  of  hers. 

^  You  fingers  four,  you  little  thumb ! 
Were  I  but  you,  in  days  to  come 
I'd  clasp,  and  kiss, —  I'd  keep  her — go! 
And  tell  her  that  I  told  you  so. 

KissiNGEN,  September,  1871. 

24 


BRAMBLE. RISE. 


These  days  were  soon  the  days  of  yore  ; 

Six  summers  pass,  and  then 
That  musing  man  would  see  once  more 
The  fountain  hi  the  glen. 

The  Russet  Pitcher. 

HAT  changes  meet  my  wistful  eyes, 
In  quiet  little  Bramble- Rise, 
The  pride  of  all  the  shire ; 
How  alter'd  is  each  pleasant  nook; — 
And  used  the  dumpy  church  to  look 
So  dumpy  in  the  spire? 
4  25 


26  "Bramble-^ise. 


This  village  is  no  longer  mine; 

And  though  the  Inn  has  changed  its  sign, 

The  beer  may  not  be  stronger; 
The  river,  dwindled  by  degrees, 
Is  now  a  brook,  the  cottages 

Are  cottages  no  longer. 

The  mud  is  brick,  the  thatch  is  slate, 
The  pound  has  tumbled  out  of  date. 

And  all  the  trees  are  stunted : 
Surely  these  thistles  once  grew  figs, 
These  geese  were  swans,  and  once  these  pigs 

More  musically  grunted. 

Where  boys  and  girls  pursued  their  sports 
A  locomotive  puffs  and  snorts, 

And  gets  my  malediction ; 
The  turf  is  dust — the  elves  are  fled  — 
The  ponds  have  shrunk — and  tastes  have  spread 

To  photograph  and  fiction. 

Ah,  there's  a  face  I  know  again, 
There's  Patty  trotting  down  the  lane 

To  fill  her  pail  with  water; 
Yes,  Patty!  but  I  fear  she's  not 
The  tricksy  Pat  that  used  to  trot, 

But  Patty,— Patty's  daughter! 

And  has  she,  too,  outlived  the  spells 
Of  breezy  hills  and  silent  dells 

Where  childhood  loved  to  ramble? 


'Bramble-%ise.  27 


Then  life  was  thornless  to  our  ken, 
And,  Bramble-Rise,  thy  hills  were  then 
A  rise  without  a  bramble. 

Whence  comes  the  change?  'Twere  simply  told; 
For  some  grow  wise,  and  some  grow  cold, 

And  all  feel  time  and  trouble : 
If  life  an  empty  bubble  be. 
How  sad  for  those  who  cannot  see 

The  rainbow  in  the  bubble ! 

And  senseless  too,  for  Madame  Fate 
Is  not  the  fickle  reprobate 

That  moody  sages  thought  her; 
My  heart  leaps  up,  and  I  rejoice, 
As  falls  upon  my  ear  thy  voice. 

My  Uttle  friskful  daughter. 

Come  hither,  fairy,  perch  on  these 
Thy  most  unworthy  father's  knees, 

And  tell  him  all  about  it. 
Are  dolls  a  sham?    Can  men  be  base? 
When  gazing  on  thy  blessed  face 

I'm  quite  prepared  to  doubt  it. 

#  *  *f  *  » 

Though  life  is  call'd  a  doleful  jaunt, 
Though  earthly  joys,  the  wisest  grant, 
Have  no  enduring  basis ; 


28  "Bramhle-^ise. 


It's  pleasant  in  this  lower  sphere, 
To  find  with  Puss,  my  daughter  dear, 
A  little  cool  oasis  ! 

Oh,  may'st  thou  some  day  own,  sweet  elf, 
A  pet  just  like  thy  winsome  self. 

Her  sanguine  thoughts  to  borrow; 
Content  to  use  her  brighter  eyes, 
Accept  her  childish  ecstasies, — 

If  need  be,  share  her  sorrow. 

The  wisdom  of  thy  prattle  cheers 

This  heart;  and  when,  outworn  in  years, 

And  homeward  I  am  starting. 
Lead  me,  my  darling,  gently  down 
To  life's  dim  strand:  the  skies  may  frown, 

—  But  weep  not  for  our  parting. 

Aj>ril,  1857. 


BEGGARS. 


I AM  pacing  the  Mall  in  a  rapt  reverie, — 
I  am  thinking  if  Sophy  is  thinking  of  me, 
When.  I'm  roused  by  a  ragged  and  shivering  wretch, 
Who  seems  to  be  well  on  his  way  to  Jack  Ketch. 

He  has  got  a  bad  face,  and  a  shocking  bad  hat; 
A  comb  in  his  fist,  and  he  sees  I'm  a  flat. 
For  he  says,  "Buy  a  comb,  it's  a  fine  un  to  wear; 
On'y  try  it,  my  Lord,  through  your  whiskers  and 
'air." 

He  eyes  my  gold  chain,  as  if  anxious  to  crib  it; 
He  looks  just  as  if  he'd  been  blown  from  a  gibbet. 
I  pause  ...   I  pass  on,  and  beside  the  club  fire 
I  settle  that  Sophy  is  aU  I  desire. 

As  I  walk  from  the  club,  and  am  deep  in  a  strophe 
That  rolls  upon  all  that's  delicious  in  Sophy, 
I'm  humbly  address'd  by  an  "object"  unnerving. 
So  tatter'd  a  wretch  must  be  "highly  deserving." 
29 


30  beggars. 


She  begs, —  I  am  touch'd,  but  I've  great  circumspec- 
tion : 

I  stifle  remorse  with  the  soothing  reflection 
That  cases  of  vice  are  by  no  means  a  rarity — 
The  worst  vice  of  all's  indiscriminate  charity. 

Am  I  right?    How  I  wish  that  my  clerical  guide 
Would  settle  this  question  —  and  others  beside. 
For  always  one's  heart  to  be  hardening  thus, 
If  wholesome  for  beggars,  is  hurtful  for  us. 

A  few  minutes  later  I'm  happy  and  free 
To  sip  "/^j  own  Sophykins' ''''  five  o'clock  tea: 
Her  table  is  loaded,  for  when  a  girl  marries. 
What  bushels  of  rubbish  they  send  her  from  Barry' s  / 

"There's  a  present  for  you,  Sir!  "    Yes,  thanks  to 
her  thrift. 

My  Pet  has  been  able  to  buy  me  a  gift; 

And  she  slips  in  my  hand,  the  delightfully  sly  Thing, 

A  paper-weight  form'd  of  a  bronze  lizard  writhing. 

"  What    a   charming   cadeau  /    and    so  truthfully 
moulded ; 

But  perhaps  you  don't  know,  or  deserve  to  be 
scolded. 

That  in  casting  this  metal  a  live,  harmless  lizard 
Was  cruelly  tortured  in  ghost  and  in  gizzard  ?  " 


beggars.  31 


"  Po-oh  !  " — says  my  lady,  (she  always  says  "  Pooh  " 
When  she's  wilful,  and  does  what  she  oughtn't  to 
do!) 

"  Hopgarten  protests  they've  no  feeling,  and  so 
It  was  only  their  muscular  7novement,  you  know !  " 

Thinks  I  (when  I've  said  au  revoir,  and  depart  — 
A  Comb  in  my  pocket,  a  Weight  —  at  my  heart), 
And  when  wretched  mendicants  writhe,  there's  a 
notion 

That  begging  is  only  their  "muscular  motion." 


A  GARDEN  LYRIC. 


There  are  plenty  of  roses  (the  patriarch  speaks) 
But  alas  not  for  me,  on  your  lips  and  your  cheeks ; 
Sweet  maiden,  rose  laden — enough  and  to  spare  — 
Spare,  O  spare  me  the  rose  that  you  wear  in  your  hair. 


'E  have  loiter'd  and  laugh'd  in  the  flowery  croft, 
We  have  met  under  wintry  skies; 


Her  voice  is  the  dearest  voice,  and  soft 
Is  the  light  in  her  wistful  eyes; 

32 


Garden  Lyric. 


33 


It  is  sweet  in  the  silent  woods,  among 

Gay  crowds,  or  in  any  place 
To  hear  her  voice,  to  gaze  on  her  young 
Confiding  face. 

For  ever  may  roses  divinely  blow, 

And  wine-dark  pansies  charm 
By  the  prim  box  path  where  I  felt  the  glow 

Of  her  dimpled,  trusting  arm, 
And  the  sweep  of  her  silk  as  she  turn'd  and  smiled 

A  smile  as  fair  as  her  pearls ; 
The  breeze  was  in  love  with  the  darling  child, 
As  it  moved-  her  curls. 

She  show'd  me  her  ferns  and  woodbine  sprays, 

Foxglove  and  jasmine  stars, 
A  mist  of  blue  in  the  beds,  a  blaze 

Of  red  in  the  celadon  jars : 
And  velvety  bees  in  convolvulus  bells. 

And  roses  of  bountiful  June  — 
Oh,  who  would  think  the  summer  spells 
Could  die  so  soon ! 

For  a  glad  song  came  from  the  milking  shed, 

On  a  wind  of  that  summer  south. 
And  the  green  was  golden  above  her  head. 

And  a  sunbeam  kiss'd  her  mouth ; 
Sweet  were  the  lips  where  that  sunbeam  dwelt — 

And  the  wings  of  Time  were  fleet 
As  I  gazed;  and  neither  spoke,  for  we  felt 
Life  was  so  sweet! 


34 


Garden  Lyric. 


And  the  odorous  limes  were  dim  above 

As  we  leant  on  a  drooping  bough; 
And  the  darkling  air  was  a  breath  of  love, 

And  a  witching  thrush  sang  "  Now !  " 
For  the  sun  dropt  low,  and  the  twilight  grew 

As  we  listen'd,  and  sigh'd,  and  leant  — 
That  day  was  the  sweetest  day  —  and  we  knew 

What  the  sweetness  meant. 

1868. 


THE  OLD  OAK-TREE 
AT  HATFIELD  BROADOAK. 

MIGHTY  growth!    The  county  side 
Lamented  when  the  Giant  died, 
For  England  loves  her  trees : 
"What  misty  legends  round  him  cling; 
How  lavishly  he  once  could  fling 
His  acorns  to  the  breeze! 

Who  struck  a  thousand  roots  in  fame, 
Who  gave  the  district  half  its  name, 

Will  not  be  soon  forgotten: 
Last  spring  he  show'd  but  one  green  bough, 
The  red  leaves  hang  there  yet, —  and  now 

His  very  props  are  rotten ! 

Elate,  the  thunderbolt  he  braved, 
For  centuries  his  branches  waved 

A  welcome  to  the  blast; 
From  reign  to  reign  he  bore  a  spell ; 
No  forester  had  dared  to  fell 

What  time  has  fell'd  at  last. 

35 


The  Old  Oak  Tree  at 


The  Monarch  wore  a  leafy  crown, — 

And  wolves,  ere  wolves  were  hunted  down, 

Found  shelter  in  his  gloom; 
Unnumber'd  squirrels  frolick'd  free. 
Glad  music  fill'd  the  gallant  Tree 

From  stem  to  topmost  bloom. 

It's  hard  to  say,  'twere  vain  to  seek, 
When  first  he  ventured  forth,  a  meek 

Petitioner  for  dew ; 
No  Saxon  spade  disturb'd  his  root, 
The  rabbit  spared  the  tender  shoot. 

And  valiantly  he  grew, 

And  show'd  some  inches  from  the  ground 
When  St.  Augustine  came  and  found 

Us  very  proper  Vandals : 
Then  nymphs  had  bluer  eyes  than  hose, 
England  then  measured  men  by  blows, 

And  measured  time  by  candles. 

The  pilgrim  bless'd  his  grateful  shade 
Ere  Richard  led  the  first  crusade; 

And  maidens  loved  to  dance 
Where,  boy  and  man,  in  summer-time, 
Chaucer  once  ponder'd  o'er  his  rhyme; 

And  Robin  Hood,  perchance, 


Hatfield  "Broadoak.  37 


Stole  hither  to  Maid  Marian ; 
(And  if  they  did  not  come,  one  can 

At  any  rate  suppose  it); 
They  met  beneath  the  mistletoe, — 
We've  done  the  same,  and  ought  to  know 

The  reason  why  they  chose  it ! 

And  this  was  call'd  the  Traitor^s  Branchy 
Guy  Warwick  hung  six  yeomen  stanch 

Along  its  mighty  fork ; 
Uncivil  wars  for  them !    The  fair 
Red  rose  and'  white  still  bloom,  but  where 

Are  Lancaster  and  York? 

Right  mournfully  his  leaves  he  shed 
To  shroud  the  graves  of  England's  dead, 

By  English  falchion  slain ; 
And  cheerfully,  for  England's  sake, 
He  sent  his  kin  to  sea  with  Drake, 

When  Tudor  humbled  Spain. 

While  Blake  was  fighting  with  the  Dutch 
They  gave  his  poor  old  arms  a  crutch; 

And  thrice  four  maids  and  men  ate 
A  meal  within  his  rugged  bark. 
When  Coventry  bewitch'd  the  Park, 

And  Chatham  sway'd  the  Senate. 


G  O  H  f  >,  ;:l 


the  Old  Oak  7ree  at 


His  few  remaining  boughs  were  green, 
And  dappled  sunbeams  danced  between 

Upon  the  dappled  deer, 
When,  clad  in  black,  two  mourners  met 
To  read  the  Waterloo  Gazette, — 

They  mourn'd  their  darling  here. 

They  join'd  their  boy.    The  Tree  at  last 
Lies  prone,  discoursing  of  the  past, 

Some  fancy-dreams  awaking; 
At  rest,  though  headlong  changes  come, 
Though  nations  arm  to  roll  of  drum, 

And  dynasties  are  quaking. 

Romantic  spot!    By  honest  pride 
Of  old  tradition  sanctified; 

My  pensive  vigil  keeping, 
Thy  beauty  moves  me  like  a  spell. 
And  thoughts,  and  tender  thoughts,  upwell, 

That  fill  my  heart  to  weeping. 

The  Squire  affirms,  with  gravest  look, 
His  Oak  goes  up  to  Domesday  Book: 

And  some  say  even  higher! 
We  rode  last  week  to  see  the  Ruin, 
We  love  the  fair  domain  it  grew  in. 

And  well  we  love  the  Squire. 


Hatfield  "Broadoak. 


A  nature  loyally  controll'd, 

And  fashion'd  in  that  righteous  mould 

Of  English  gentleman ; 
My  child  some  day  will  read  these  rhym( 
She  loved  her  "godpapa"  betimes, — 

The  little  Christian! 

I  love  the  Past,  its  ripe  pleasance, 
And  lusty  thought,  and  dim  romance, — 

Its  heart-compelling  ditties; 
But  more,  these  -ties,  in  mercy  sent, 
With  faith  and  true  affection  blent, 
And,  wanting  them,  I  were  content 

To  murmur,  '■^Nunc  dimittisy 


Hallingbury:  April,  1859. 


ON  AN  OLD  MUFF. 


He  cannot  be  complete  in  aught 
Who  is  not  humorously  prone, — 

A  man  without  a  merry  thought 
Can  hardly  have  a  funny  bone. 

IME  has  a  magic  wand! 
What  is  this  meets  my  hand, 
Moth-eaten,  mouldy,  and 

Cover 'd  with  fluff? 
Faded,  and  stiff,  and  scant; 
Can  it  be?  no,  it  can't  — 
Yes,  I  declare,  it's  Aunt 
Prudence's  Muff! 
40 


On  an  Old  zMujf. 


Years  ago,  twenty-three, 
Old  Uncle  Doubledee 
Gave  it  to  Aunty  P. 

Laughing  and  teasing  — 
*'  Pru.,  of  the  breezy  curls, 
Whisper  those  solemn  churls, 
What  holds  a  pretty  girVs 

Ha7id  without  squeezing?'''' 

Uncle  was  then  a  lad 
Gay,  but,  I  grieve  to  add, 
Sinful ;  if  smoking  bad 

Baccy  's  a  vice  : 
Glossy  was  then  this  mink 
Muff,  lined  with  pretty  pink 
Satin,  which  maidens  think 

"Awfully  nice !  " 

I  seem  to  see  again 

Aunt  in  her  hood  and  train, 

Glide,  with  a  sweet  disdain. 

Gravely  to  Meeting: 
Psalm-book,  and  kerchief  new, 
Peep'd  from  the  Muff  of  Pru. ; 
Young  men,  and  pious  too. 

Giving  her  greeting. 

Sweetly  her  Sabbath  sped 
Then;  from  this  Muff,  it's  said, 
Tracts  she  distributed: — 
Converts  (till  Monday!) 

6 


On  an  Old  zMujf. 


Lured  by  the  grace  they  lack'd, 
Follow'd  her.    One,  in  fact, 
Ask'd  for  —  and  got  his  tract 
Twice  of  a  Sunday ! 

Love  has  a  potent  spell ; 
Soon  this  bold  Ne^ er-do-well. 
Aunt's  too  susceptible 

Heart  undermining, 
Slipt,  so  the  scandal  runs. 
Notes  in  the  pretty  nun's 
Muff,  triple-corner'd  ones, 

Pink  as  its  lining. 

Worse  follow'd,  soon  the  jade 

Fled  (to  oblige  her  blade!) 

Whilst  her  friends  thought  that  they'd 

Lock'd  her  up  tightly: 
After  such  shocking  games 
Aunt  is  of  wedded  dames 
Gayest,  and  now  her  name's 

Mrs.  Golightly. 

In  female  conduct  flaw 
Sadder  I  never  saw. 
Faith  still  I've  in  the  law 

Of  compensation. 
Once  Uncle  went  astray, 
Smoked,  joked,  and  swore  away, 
Sworn  by  he's  now,  by  a 

Large  congregation. 


On  an  Old  (Muff, 


Changed  is  the  Child  of  Sin, 
Now  he's  (he  once  was  thin) 
Grave,  with  a  double  chin, — 

Blest  be  his  fat  form ! 
Changed  is  the  garb  he  wore. 
Preacher  was  never  more 
Prized  than  is  Uncle  for 

Pulpit  or  platform. 

If  all's  as  best  befits 
Mortals  of  slender  wits, 
Then  beg  this  Muff  and  its 

Fair  Owner  pardon : 
AlPs  for  the  best,  indeed 
Such  is  My  simple  creed ; 
Still  I  must  go  and  weed] 

Hard  in  my  garden. 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  PALL  MALL. 


Y  little  friend,  so  small,  so  neat, 
Whom  years  ago  I  used  to  meet 
In  Pall  Mall  daily, 
How  cheerily  you  tript  away 
To  work,  it  might  have  been  to  play, 
You  tript  so  gaily. 

And  Time  trips  too  !    This  moral  means 
You  then  were  midway  in  the  teens 

That  I  was  crowning; 
We  never  spoke,  but  when  I  smiled 
At  morn  or  eve,  I  know,  dear  Child, 

You  were  not  frowning. 

Each  morning  that  we  met,  I  think 
One  sentiment  us  two  did  link, 

Not  joy,  nor  sorrow; 
And  then  at  eve,  experience-taught, 
Our  hearts  were  lighter  for  the  thought, — 

We  meet  to-morrow  I 
44 


The  Pilgrims  of  Pall  eMail.  45 


And  you  were  poor,  so  poor  !  and  why  ? 
How  kind  to  come,  it  was  for  my 

Especial  grace  meant! 
Had  you  a  chamber  near  the  stars, — 
A  bird, —  some  treasured  plants  in  jars. 

About  your  casement? 

Often  I  wander  up  and  down, 

When  morning  bathes  the  silent  town 

In  dewy  glory 
Perhaps,  unwitting,  I  have  heard 
Your  thrilling-toned  canary-bird 

From  that  third  story. 

I've  seen  some  change  since  last  we  met  — 
A  patient  little  seamstress  yet, 

On  small  wage  striving, 
Have  you  a  Lilliputian  spouse  ? 
And  do  you  dwell  in  some  doll's  house? — 

Is  baby  thriving? 

My  heart  grows  chill !  Can  soul  like  thine, 
Weary  of  this  dear  World  of  mine. 

Have  loosed  its  fetter. 
To  find  a  world,  whose  promised  bliss 
Is  better  than  the  best  of  this? — 

And  is  it  better? 


The  Pilgrims  of  Pall  (Mall, 


Sometimes  to  Pall  Mall  I  repair, 
And  see  the  damsels  passing  there; 

But  if  I  try  to    .    .  . 
To  get  one  glance,  they  look  discreet. 
As  though  they'd  some  one  else  to  meet 

As  have  not  /  too  ? 

Yet  still  I  often  think  upon 

Our  many  meetings,  come  and  gone, 

July  —  December! 
Now  let  us  make  a  tryst,  and  when, 
Dear  little  soul,  we  meet  again. 
In  some  serener  sphere,  why  then 

Thy  friend  remember. 

1856. 


LOULOU  AND  HER  CAT, 


I'm  nervous  too,  I  hate  a  cat! 
Extremely  so  ;  but,  as  /or  that, 
It  is  not  only  cat  or  rat,  * 
Or  haunted  room,  or  ghostly  chat. 
That  makes  my  heart  go  pit-a-pat. 


OOD  pastry  is  vended 
In  Cite  Fadette; 
Maison  Pons  can  make  splendid 
Brioche  and  galette. 
47 


Loulou  and  Her  Cat. 


M^sieu  Pons  is  so  fat  that 

He's  laid  on  the  shelf; 
Madame  had  a  cat  that 

Was  fat  as  herself. 

Long  hair,  soft  as  satin, 

A  musical  purr, 
'Gainst  the  window  she'd  flatten 

Her  delicate  fur. 

I  drove  Lou  to  see  what 
These  worthies  were  at, — 

In  rapture,  cried  she,  "  What 
An  exquisite  cat! 

"  What  whiskers  !    She's  purring 

All  over.  Regale 
Our  eyes.  Puss,  by  stirring 

Your  feathery  tail ! 

"M''sieu  Pons,  will  you  sell  her?" 
"J/a  fefnme  est  sortie, 
Your  offer  I'll  tell  her; 
But  —  will  she?"  says  he. 

Yet  Pons  was  persuaded 
To  part  with  the  prize : 

(Our  bargain  was  aided. 
My  Lou,  by  your  eyes ! ) 


Loulou  and  Her  Cat.  49 


From  his  legitime  save  him, — 
My  spouse  I  prefer, — 

For  I  warrant  his  gave  him 
Un  mauvais  quart  d^heure. 

I'm  giving  a  pleasant 

Grimalkin  to  Lou, — 
Ah,  Fuss,  vfh3i\.  a  present 

I'm  giving  to  you ! 


7 


THE  SKELETON  IN  THE 
CUPBOARD. 


The  most  forlorn  ■ —  whai  worms  we  are  ! 
Would  wish  to  finish  this  cigar 
Be/ore  departing. 


HE  characters  of  great  and  small 
Come  ready  made,  we  can't  bespeak  one; 
Their  sides  are  many,  too, — and  all 

(Except  ourselves)  have  got  a  weak  one. 
Some  sanguine  people  love  for  life. 

Some  love  their  hobby  till  it  flings  them. — 
How  many  love  a  pretty  wife 

For  love  of  the  eclat  she  brings  them ! 


A  little  to  relieve  my  mind 

I've  thrown  off  this  disjointed  chatter, 
But  more  because  I'm  disinclined 

To  enter  on  a  painful  matter : 
Once  I  was  bashful;  I'll  allow 

I've  blushed  for  words  untimely  spoken; 
I  still  am  rather  shy,  and  now    .    .  . 

And  now  the  ice  is  fairly  broken. 


The  Skeleton  in  the  Cupboard.  51 


We  all  have  secrets  :  you  have  one 

Which  mayn't  be  quite  your  charming  spouse's  j 
We  all  lock  up  a  skeleton 

In  some  grim  chamber  of  our  houses; 
Familiars  vv^ho  exhaust  their  days 

And  nights  in  probing  where  our  smart  is  — 
And  who,  excepting  spiteful  ways, 

Are  "silent,  xiiidiSSUTcimg  parties." 

We  hug  this  phantom  we  detest, 

Rarely  we  let  it  cross  our  portals : 
It  is  a  most  exacting  guest, — 

Now,  are  we  not  afflicted  mortals  ? 
Your  neighbor  Gay,  that  jovial  wight, 

As  Dives  rich,  and  brave  as  Hector  — 
Poor  Gay  steals  twenty  times  a  night, 

On  shaking  knees,  to  see  his  spectre. 

Old  Dives  fears  a  pauper  fate. 

So  hoarding  in  his  ruling  passion ; — 
Some  gloomy  souls  anticipate 

A  waistcoat,  straiter  than  the  fashion! — 
She  childless  pines,  that  lonely  wife, 

And  secret  tears  are  bitter  shedding; — 
Hector  may  tremble  all  his  life, 

And  die,— but  not  of  that  he's  dreading. 

Ah  me,  the  World !    How  fast  it  spins ! 
The  beldams  dance,  the  caldron  bubbles ; 


52     The  Skeleton  in  the  Cupboard. 


They  shriek, —  they  stir  it  for  our  sins, 
And  we  must  drain  it  for  our  troubles. 

We  toil,  we  groan; — the  cry  for  love 
Mounts  up  from  this  poor  seething  city, 

And  yet  I  know  we  have  above 
A  Father,  infinite  in  pity. 

When  Beauty  smiles,  when  Sorrow  weeps. 

Where  sunbeams  play,  where  shadows  darken. 
One  inmate  of  our  dwelling  keeps 

Its  ghastly  carnival; — but  hearken! 
How  dry  the  rattle  of  the  bones ! 

That  sound  was  not  to  make  you  start  meant: 
Stand  by !    Your  humble  servant  owns 

The  Tenant  of  this  Dark  Apartment. 


GERALDINE. 


She  will  not  need  the  Shepherd' s  crook. 
Her  griefs  are  only  passing  shadow ; 

She'll  bask  beside  the  purest  brook. 
And  nibble  in  the  greenest  meadow. 

SIMPLE  child  has  claims 
On  your  sentiment,  her  name's 
Geraldine. 
Be  tender,  but  beware, 
She's  frolicsome  as  fair, — 
And  fifteen. 

She  has  gifts  to  grace  allied. 
And  each  she  has  applied. 

And  improved: 
She  has  bliss  that  lives  and  leans 
On  loving, — ah,  that  means 

She  is  loved. 

Her  beauty  is  refined 
By  sweet  harmony  of  mind, 
And  the  art, 
53 


Geraldine. 


And  the  blessed  nature,  too, 
Of  a  tender,  of  a  true 
Little  heart. 

And  yet  I  must  not  vault 
Over  any  foolish  fault 

That  she  owns ; 
Or  others  might  rebel, 
And  enviously  swell 

In  their  zones. 

For  she's  tricksy  as  the  fays, 
Or  her  pussy  when  it  plays 

With  a  string  : 
She's  a  goose  about  her  cat. 
Her  ribbons,  and  all  that 

Sort  of  thing. 

These  foibles  are  a  blot. 
Still  she  never  can  do  what 

Is  not  nice  ; 
Such  as  quarrel,  and  give  slaps  — 
As  I've  known  her  get,  perhaps, 

Once  or  twice. 

The  spells  that  draw  her  soul 
Are  subtle  —  sad  or  droll: 

She  can  show 
That  virtuoso  whim 
Which  concentrates  our  dim 

Long-ago. 


Geraldine. 


55 


A  love  that  is  not  sham 

For  Stothard,  Blake,  and  Lamb ; 

And  I've  known 
Cordelia's  sad  eyes 
Cause  angel-tears  to  rise 

In  her  own. 

Her  gentle  spirit  yearns 

When  she  reads  of  Robin  Burns; — 

Luckless  Bard, 
Had  she  blossom'd  in  thy  time, 
Oh,  how  rare  had  been  the  rhyme 

—  And  reward ! 

Thrice  happy  then  is  he 
Who,  planting  such  a  Tree, 

Sees  it  bloom 
To  shelter  him;  indeed 
We  have  joyance  as  we  speed 

To  our  doom! 

I  am  happy,  having  grown 
Such  a  Sapling  of  my  own; 

And  I  crave 
No  garland  for  my  brows, 
But  rest  beneath  its  boughs 

To  the  grave. 

1864. 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 


THE  ORANGE. 

IT  ripen'd  by  the  river  banks, 
Where,  mask  and  moonlight  aiding, 
Dons  Bias  and  Juan  play  their  pranks, 
Dark  Donnas  serenading. 

By  Moorish  damsel  it  was  pluck'd, 
Beneath  the  golden  day  there ; 

By  swain  'twas  then  in  London  suck'd  — 
Who  flung  the  peel  away  there. 
56 


Circumstance. 


57 


He  could  not  know  in  Pimlico, 
As  little  she  in  Seville, 

That  /  should  reel  upon  that  peel, 
And — wish  them  at  the  devil. 

1856. 


8 


AT  HURLINGHAM. 


/  recollect  a  nurse  calVd  A  nn. 
Who  carried  me  about  the  grass, 
A  nd  one  fine  day  a  fine  young  man 
Came  up  and  kissed  the  pretty  lass  : 
She  did  not  make  the  least  objection  / 

Thinks  I,  ''Aha! 
When  I  can  talk  I'll  tell  Mamma." 
— And  that's  my  earliest  recollection. 


HIS  was  dear  Willy's  brief  despatch, 
A  curt  and  yet  a  cordial  summons ; — 
"  Do  come !  I'm  in  to-morrow's  match, 

And  see  us  whip  the  Faithful  Commons.'''' 
We  trundled  out  behind  the  bays, 

Through  miles  and  miles  of  brick  and  garden ; 
Mamma  was  drest  in  mauve  and  maize, — 
Of  course  I  wore  my  Dolly  Varden. 


A  charming  scene,  and  lively  too, 

The  paddock's  full,  the  band  is  playing 
Boulotte's  song  in  Barbe  Bleue ; 
And  what  are  all  these  people  saying? 
S8 


zAt  Hurlingham.  59 


They  flirt!  they  bet!    There's  Linda  Reeves 
Too  lovely !    I'd  give  worlds  to  borrow 

Her  yellow  rose  with  russet  leaves ! — 
I'll  wear  a  yellow  rose  to-morrow! 

And  there  are  May  and  Algy  Meade; 

How  proud  she  looks  on  her  promotion ! 
The  ring  must  be  amused  indeed, 

And  edified  by  such  devotion  ! 
I  wonder  if  she  ever  guess'd! 

I  wonder  if  he'll  call  on  Friday ! 
I  often  wonder  which  is  best! — 

I  only  hope  my  hair  is  tidy! 

Some  girls  repine,  and  some  rejoice. 

And  some  get  bored,  but  I'm  contented 
To  make  my  destiny  my  choice, — 

I'll  never  dream  that  I've  repented. 
There's  something  sad  in  loved  and  cross'' d. 

For  all  the  fond,  fond  hope  that  rings  it: 
There's  something  sweet  in  "loved  and  lost" — 

And  Oh,  how  sweetly  Alfred  sings  it  I 

I'll  own  I'm  bored  with  handicaps! — 

Bluerocks !  (they  always  are  bluerock'''' — 
With  May,  a  little  bit,  perhaps,— 

And  yon  Faust's  teufelshund  is  shocking ! 
Bang  .  .  .  bang  .  .  .  !  That's  Willy !  There's  his  bird, 

Blithely  it  cleaves  the  skies  above  me ! 
He's  miss'd  all  ten!    He's  too  absurd! — 

I  hope  he'll  always,  always  love  me  J 


<iAt  Hurlingham, 


We've  lost!    To  tea,  then  back  to  town; 

The  crowd  "is  laughing,  eating,  drinking; 
The  moon's  eternal  eyes  look  down, — 

Of  what  can  yon  sad  moon  be  thinking  ? 
Oh,  but  for  some  good  fairy's  wand, — 

This  pigeoncide  is  worse  than  silly, 
But  still  I'm  very,  very  fond 

Of  Hurlingham,  and  tea, —  and  Willy. 


PICCADILLY. 


Her  eyes  and  her  hair 

A  re  superb  ; 
She  stands  in  despair 

On  the  kerb. 
Quick,  stranger,  advance 

To  her  aid: — 
She's  across,  with  a  glance, 

You're  repaid. 
She's  /air,  and  yot^re  tall. 

Fal-lal-la!— 
What  will  come  o/  it  all  ? 
Chi  lo  sa ! 

Cupid  on  the  Crossing. 

ICCADILLY!    Shops,  palaces,  bustle,  and 
breeze, 

The  whirring  of  wheels,  and  the  murmur  of  trees; 
By  night  or  by  day,  whether  noisy  or  stilly. 
Whatever  my  mood  is,  I  love  Piccadilly. 

6i 


62 


Piccadilly. 


Wet  nights,  when  the  gas  on  the  pavement  is 
streaming, 

And  young  Love  is  watching,   and  old  Love  is 
dreaming, 

And  Beauty  is  whirling  to  conquest,  where  shrilly 
Cremona  makes  nimble  thy  toes,  Piccadilly ! 

Bright  days,  when  a  stroll  is  my  afternoon  wont, 
And  I  meet  all  the  people  I  do  know,  or  don't: — 
Here  is  jolly  old  Brown,  and  his  fair  daughter 
Lillie  — 

No  wonder  some  pilgrims  affect  Piccadilly ! 

See  yonder  pair  riding,  how  fondly  they  saunter, 
She  smiles  on  her  poet,  whose  heart's  in  a  canter  ! 
Some  envy  her  spouse,  and  some  covet  her  filly, 
He  envies  them  both, —  he's  an  ass,  Piccadilly! 

Were  I  such  a  bride,  with  a  slave  at  my  feet, 
I  would  choose .  me  a  house  in  my  favourite  street ; 
Yes  or  no  —  I  would  carry  my  point,  willy-nilly : 
If  "no," — pick  a  quarrel;  if"  yes," — Piccadilly! 

From  Primrose  balcony,  long  ages  ago, 
"Old  Q."  sat  at  gaze, —  who  now  passes  below? 
A  frolicsome  statesman,  the  Man  of  the  Day ; 
A  laughing  philosopher,  gallant  and  gay; 
Never  darling  of  fortune  more  manfully  trod, 
Full  of  years,  full  of  fame,  and  the  world  at  his 
nod: 


Piccadilly. 


63 


Can  the  thought  reach  his  heart,  and  then  leave  it 

more  chilly  — 
"  Old  P.  or  Old  Q.,—  I  must  quit  Piccadilly  "  ? 

Life  is  chequer'd;  a  patchwork  of  smiles  and  of 
frowns ; 

We  value  its  ups,  let  us  muse  on  its  downs ; 
There's  a  side  that  is  bright,  it  will  then  turn  us 
t'other. 

One  turn,  if  a  good  one,  deserves  yet  another. 
These  downs  are  delightful,  these  ups  are  not  hilly, — 
Let  us  turn  one  more  turn  ere  we  quit  Piccadilly. 

1856. 


AN  INVITATION  TO  ROME,  AND 
THE  REPLY. 


THE  INVITATION. 

OH,  come  to  Rome,  it  is  a  pleasant  place, 
Your  London   sun  is    here,  and  smiling 
brightly ; 

The  Briton,  too,  puts  on  his  cheery  face. 
And  Mrs.  Bull  acquits  herself  politely. 

The  Romans  are  an  easy-going  race, 

With  simple  wives,  more  dignified  than  sprightly; 

I  see  them  at  their  doors,  as  day  is  closing. 

Prouder  than  duchesses,  and  more  imposing. 

A  sweet  far  niente  life  promotes  the  graces; 

They  pass  from  dreamy  bliss  to  wakeful  glee. 
And  in  their  bearing  and  their  speech,  one  traces 

A  breadth,  a  depth  —  a  grace  of  courtesy 
Not  found  in  busy  or  inclement  places; 

Their  clime  and  tongue  are  much  in  harmony : — 
The  Cockney  met  in  Middlesex,  or  Surrey, 
Is  often  cold,  and  always  in  a  hurry. 

64 


cAn  Invitation  to  l{ome.  65 


Oh,  come  to  Rome,  nor  be  content  to  read 
Of  famous  palace  and  of  stately  street 

Whose  fountains  ever  run  with  joyful  speed, 
And  never-ceasing  murmur.    Here  we  greet 

Memnon's  vast  monolith;  or,  gay  with  weed, 
Rich  capitals,  as  corner-stone,  or  seat. 

The  site  of  vanish'd  temples,  where  now  moulder 

Old  ruins,  masking  ruin  even  older. 

Ay,  come,  and  see  the  statues,  pictures,  churches, 
Although  the  last  are  commonplace,  or  florid.— 

Who  say  'tis  here  that  superstition  perches  ? 

Myself  I'm  glad  the  marbles  have  been  quarried. 

The  sombre  streets  are  worthy  your  researches : 
The  ways  are  foul,  the  lava  pavement's  horrid. 

But  pleasant  sights,  that  squeamishness  disparages. 

Are  miss'd  by  all  who  roll  about  in  carriages. 

I  dare  not  speak  of  Michael  Angelo, 

Such  theme  were  all  too  splendid  for  my  pen : 

And  if  I  breathe  the  name  of  Sanzio 
(The  brightest  of  Italian  gentlemen,) 

Is  it  that  love  casts  out  my  fear,  and  so 

I  claim  with  him  a  kindredship?    Ah,  when 

We  love,  the  name  is  on  our  hearts  engraven. 

As  is  thy  name,  my  own  dear  Bard  of  Avon. 

Nor  is  the  Coliseum  theme  of  mine, 
'Twas  built  for  poet  of  a  larger  daring; 
9 


66 


iAn  Invitation  to  %ome. 


The  world  goes  there  with  torches;  I  decline 
Thus  to  affront  the  moonbeams  with  their  flaring. 

Some  time  in  May  our  forces  we'll  combine 
(Just  you  and  I),  and  try  a  midnight  airing. 

And  then  I'll  quote  this  rhyme  to  you  —  and  then 

You'll  muse  upon  the  vanity  of  men ! 


Come!    We  will  charter  such  a  pair  of  nags! 

The  country's  better  seen  when  one  is  riding: 
We'll  roam  where  yellow  Tiber  speeds  or  lags 

At  will.    The  aqueducts  are  yet  bestriding 
With  giant  march  (now  whole,  now  broken  crags 

With  flowers  plumed)  the  sweUing  and  subsiding 
Campagna,  girt  by  purple  hills  afar, 
That  melt  in  light  beneath  the  evening  star. 


A  drive  to  Palestrina  will  be  pleasant; 

The  wild  fig  grows  where  erst  her  rampart  stood ; 
There  oft,  in  goat-skin  clad,  a  sunburnt  peasant 

Like  Pan,  comes  frisking  from  his  ilex  wood, 
And  seems  to  wake  the  past  time  in  the  present. 

Fair  contadina,  mark  his  mirthful  mood. 
No  antique  satyr  he.    The  nimble  fellow 
Can  join  with  jollity  your  saltarello. 

Old  sylvan  peace  and  liberty!    The  breath 

Of  life  to  unsophisticated  man. 
Here  Mirth  may  pipe,  Love  here  may  weave  his  wreath 

"/Vr  dar'  al  mio  beney    When  you  can, 


1 


zAnd  the  %eply. 


67 


Come  share  their  leafy  solitudes.    Pale  Death 
And  Time  are  grudging  of  our  little  span: 
Wan  Time  speeds  lightly  o'er  the  changing  corn, 
Death  grins  from  yonder  cynical  old  thorn. 

Oh,  come !    I  send  a  leaf  of  April  fern, 
It  grew  where  beauty  lingers  round  decay : 

Ashes  long  buried  in  a  sculptured  urn 
Are  not  more  dead  than  Rome  —  so  dead  to-day! 

That  better  time,  for  which  the  patriots  yearn, 
Delights  the  gaze,  again  to  fade  away. 

They  wait,  they  pine  for  what  is  long  denied, 

And  thus  I  wait  till  thou  art  by  my  side. 

Thou'rt  far  away !    Yet,  while  I  write,  I  still 
Seem  gently.  Sweet,  to  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine; 

I  cannot  bring  myself  to  drop  the  quill, 
I  cannot  yet  thy  little  hand  resign ! 

The  plain  is  fading  into  darkness  chill, 
The  Sabine  peaks  are  flush'd  with  light  divine, 

I  watch  alone,  my  fond  thought  wings  to  thee ; 

Oh,  come  to  Rome.    Oh,  come,  —  oh,  come  to  me  ! 

1863. 


THE  REPLY. 

Dear  Exile,  I  was  proud  to  get 

Your  rhyme,  I've  laid  it  up  in  cotton ; 

You  know  that  you  are  all  to  "  Pet," — 
She  fear'd  that  she  was  quite  forgotten. 


zAn  Invitation  to  %ome. 


Mamma,  who  scolds  me  when  I  mope, 
Insists,  and  she  is  wise  as  gentle, 

That  I  am  still  in  love!    I  hope 
That  you  feel  rather  sentimental ! 

Perhaps  you  think  your  Lovg  forlore 

Should  pine  unless  her  slave  be  with  her ; 
Of  course  you're  fond  of  Rome,  and  more — 

Of  course  you'd  like  to  coax  me  thither! 
Che!  quit  this  dear  delightful  maze 

Of  calls  and  balls,  to  be  intensely 
Discomfited  in  fifty  ways  — 

I  like  your  confidence,  immensely! 

Some  girls  who  love  to  ride  and  race, 

And  live  for  dancing,  like  the  Bruens, 
Confess  that  Rome's  a  charming  place — 

In  spite  of  all  the  stupid  ruins  ! 
I  think  it  might  be  sweet  to  pitch 

One's  tent  beside  those  banks  of  Tiber, 
And  all  that  sort  of  thing,  of  which 

Dear  Hawthorne's  "  quite"  the  best  describer. 

To  see  stone  pines  and  marble  gods 

In  garden  alleys  red  with  roses; — 
The  Perch  where  Pio  Nono  nods; — 

The  Church  where  Raphael  reposes. 
Make  pleasant  giros — when  we  may; 

Jump  stagionate  (where  they're  easy!) 
And  play  croquet;  the  Bruens  say 

There's  turf  behind  the  Ludovisi ! 


iAnd  the  %eply. 


69 


I'll  bring  my  books,  though  Mrs.  Mee 

Says  packing  books  is  such  a  worry; 
I'll  bring  my  Golden  Treasury, 

Manzoni,  and,  of  course,  a  "  Murray !  " 
Your  verses  (if  you  so  advise!) 

A  Dante  —  Auntie  owns  a  quarto; 
I'll  try  and  buy  a  smaller  size, 

And  read  him  on  the  Muro  Torto, 

But  can  I  go?    La  Madre  thinks 

It  would  be  such  an  undertaking! 
(I  wish  we  could  consult  a  sphinx ! ) 

The  thought  alone  has  left  her  quaking! 
Papa  (we  do  not  mind  papa) 

Has  got  some  "notice"  of  some  "motion," 
And  could  not  stay;  but,  why  not, —  ah, 

I've  not  the  very  slightest  notion ! 

The  Browns  have  come  to  stay  a  week  — 

They've  brought  the  boys  —  I  haven't  thank'd  'em;  t 
For  Baby  Grand,  and  Baby  Pic, 

Are  playing  cricket  in  my  sanctum! 
Your  Rover,  too,  affects  my  den, 

And  when  I  pat  the  dear  old  whelp,  it   .  . 
It  makes  me  think  of  You,  and  then    .  . 

And  then  I  cry  —  I  cannot  help  it. 

Ah  yes,  before  you  left  me,  ere 

Our  separation  was  impending, 
These  eyes  had  seldom  shed  a  tear, — 

I  thought  my  joy  could  have  no  ending! 


70 


<^n  Invitation  to  %ome. 


But  cloudlets  gather'd  soon,  and  this  — 
This  was  the  first  that  rose  to  grieve  me — 

To  know  that  I  possess'd  the  bliss, — 

For  then  I  knew  such  bliss  might  leave  me 

My  strain  is  sad,  but,  oh,  believe 

Your  words  have  made  my  spirit  better; 
And  if,  perhaps,  at  times  I  grieve, 

I'd  meant  to  write  a  cheery  letter; 
But  skies  were  dull;  Rome  sounded  hot, 

I  fancied  I  could  live  without  it: 
I  thought  I'd  go,  I  thought  I'd  not. 

And  then  I  thought  I'd  think  about  it. 

The  sun  now  glances  o'er  the  Park, 

If  tears  are  on  my  cheek,  they  glitter, 
I  think  I've  kissed  your  rhyme,  for  hark. 

My  "  bulley  "  gives  a  saucy  twitter ! 
Your  blessed  words  extinguish  doubt, 

A  sudden  breeze  is  gaily  blowing,— 
And  Hark!    The  minster  bells  ring  out  — 

She  ought  to  go.    Of  course  she^s  going ! 


1863. 


IT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN. 


FRIENDLY  bird  with  bosom  red 
Is  fluting  near  my  garden  seat; 
Your  sky  is  fair  above  my  head, 
And  Tweed  rejoices  at  my  feet. 

The  squirrels  gambol  in  the  oak, 
All,  all  is  glad,  but  you  prefer 

To  linger  on  amid  the  smoke 
Of  stony-hearted  Westminster. 


Again  I  read  your  letter  through, — 
^^How  wonderful  is  fate^s  decree, 


72  //  (Might  Have  "Been. 


How  sweet  is  all  your  life  io  you, 
And  oh,  how  sad  is  mine  to  me" 

I  know  your  wail — who  knows  it  not? 

He  gave, — He  taketh  that  He  gave. 
Yours  is  the  lot,  the  common  lot, 

To  go  down  weeping  to  the  grave. 

Sad  journey  to  a  dark  abyss, 

Meet  ending  of  your  sorrow  keen, — 

The  burden  of  My  dirge  is  this, 

And  this  My  woe, — //  might  have  been  ! 

Dear  bird !    Blithe  bird  that  sings  in  frost, 
Forgive  my  friend  if  he  is  sad; 

He  mourns  what  he  has  only  lost, — 
I  weep  what  I  have  never  had. 


Lees,  September  27,  1873. 


TO  MY  MISTRESS. 


His  musings  were  trite,  and  their  burden,  forsooth. 
The  wisdom  of  age  and  the  folly  of  youth. 

QARQUISE,  I  see  the  flying  year, 
And  feel  how  Time  is  wasting  here : 
Ay  more,  he  soon  his  worst  will  do. 
And  garner  all  your  roses  too. 

It  pleases  Time  to  fold  his  wings 
Around  our  best  and  fairest  things ; 
He'll  mar  your  blooming  cheek,  as  now 
He  stamps  his  mark  upon  my  brow. 

The  same  mute  planets  rise  and  shine 
To  rule  your  days  and  nights  as  mine: 
Once  I  was  young  and  gay,  and  see !   .  . 
What  I  am  now  you  soon  will  be. 

And  yet  I  vaunt  a  certain  charm 
That  shields  me  from  your  worst  alarm; 
And  bids  me  gaze,  with  front  sublime, 
On  all  these  ravages  of  Time. 
10  73 


74 


7b  zMy  (Mistress, 


You  boast  a  gift  that  blooms  and  dies, 
I  boast  a  gift  that  change  defies: 
For  mine  will  still  be  mine,  and  last 
When  all  your  pride  of  beauty's  past. 

My  gift  may  long  embalm  the  lures 
Of  eyes  —  ah,  beautiful  as  yours : 
For  ages  hence  the  great  and  good 
Will  judge  you  as  I  choose  they  should. 

In  days  to  come  the  peer  or  clown, 
With  whom  I  still  shall  win  renown. 
Will  only  know  that  You  were  fair 
Because  I  chanced  to  say  you  were. 

Proud  Lady!    Scornful  beauty  mocks 
At  aged  heads  and  silver  locks; 
But  think  awhile  before  you  fly, 
Or  spurn  a  poet  such  as  I. 


Kenwood:  July  21,  1864. 


THE  BEAR  PIT. 


IN  THE   ZOOLOGICAL  GARDENS. 

//  seems  that  poor  Bruin  has  never  had  peace 

'  Twixt  bald  men  in  Bethel,  and  wise  men  in  grease. 

Old  Adage. 


E  liked  the  bear's  serio-comical  face, 
As  he  loll'd  with  a  lazy,  a  lumbering  grace  : 


Said  Slyboots  to  me  (just  as  if  she  had  none), 
"Papa,  let's  give  Bruin  a  bit  of  your  bun." 

75 


76 


The  "Bear  Pit 


Says  I,  "A  plum  bun  miglit  please  wistful  old  Bruin, 
He  can't  eat  the  stone  that  the  cruel  boy  threw  in ; 
Stick  yours  on  the  point  of  mamma's  parasol, 
And  then  he  will  climb  to  the  top  of  the  pole. 

"  Some  bears  have  got  two  legs,  and  some  have  got 
more. 

Be  good  to  old  bears  if  they've  no  legs  or  four ; 
Of  duty  to  age  you  should  never  be  careless, — 
My  dear,  I  am  bald,  and  I  soon  may  be  hairless ! 

"  The  gravest  aversion  exists  among  bears 
From  rude  forward  persons  who  give  themselves  airs, — 
We  know  how  some  graceless  young  people  were  maul'd 
For  plaguing  a  Prophet,  and  calling  him  bald. 

"  Strange  ursine  devotion  !  Their  dancing-days  ended 
Bears  die  to  *  remove '  what,  in  life,  they  defended : 
They  succour'd  the  Prophet,  and,  since  that  affair, 
The  bald  have  a  painful  regard  for  the  bear." 

My  Moral — Small  people  may  read  it,  and  run. 
(The  child  has  my  moral,— the  bear  has  my  bun.) 


/ 


A  NICE  CORRESPONDENT! 


An  angel  at  noon,  she's  a  woman  at  night. 

All  softness,  and  sweetness,  and  love,  and  delight. 

HE  glow  and  the  glory  are  plighted 
To  darkness,  for  evening  is  come; 
The  lamp  in  Glebe  Cottage  is  lighted, 

The  birds  and  the  sheep-bells  are  dumb. 
I'm  alone,  for  the  others  have  flitted 
To  dine  with  a  neighbor  at  Kew  : 
Alone,  but  I'm  not  to  be  pitied  — 
I'm  thinking  of  you! 

I  wish  you  were  here !    Were  I  duller 

Than  dull,  you'd  be  dearer  than  dear ; 
I  am  drest  in  your  favourite  colour  — 

Dear  Fred,  how  I  wish  you  were  here ! 
I  am  wearing  my  lazuli  necklace, 

The  necklace  you  fasten'd  askew ! 
Was  there  ever  so  rude  or  so  reckless 
A  darling  as  you? 

77 


zA  V^ice  Correspondent. 


I  want  you  to  come  and  pass  sentence 
On  two  or  three  books  with  a  plot; 

Of  course  you  know  "Janet's  Repentance"? 
I'm  reading  Sir  Waverley  Scott, 

The  story  of  Edgar  and  Lucy, 
How  thrilhng,  romantic,  and  true ! 

The  Master  (his  bride  was  a  goosey/) 
Reminds  me  of  you. 

They  tell  me  Cockaigne  has  been  crowning 

A  Poet  whose  garland  endures; 
It  was  you  who  first  spouted  me  Browning, — 

That  stupid  old  Browning  of  yours ! 
His  vogue  and  his  verve  are  alarming, 

I'm  anxious  to  give  him  his  due. 
But,  Fred,  he's  not  nearly  so  charming 
A  poet  as  you! 

I  heard  how  you  shot  at  The  Beeches, 
I  saw  how  you  rode  Chanticleer^ 

I  have  read  the  report  of  your  speeches, 
And  echo'd  the  echoing  cheer. 

There's  a  whisper  of  hearts  you  are  breaking, 
Dear  Fred,  I  believe  it,  I  do! — 

Small  marvel  that  Fashion  is  making 
Her  idol  of  you  ! 

Alas  for  the  world  and  its  dearly 
Bought  triumph,  its  fugitive  bliss ; 


<tA  zJ^Hce  Correspondent.  79 


Sometimes  I  half  wish  I  were  merely 

A  plain  or  a  penniless  miss; 
But,  perhaps,  one  is  best  with  "  a  measure 

Of  pelf,"  and  I'm  not  sorry,  too,' 
That  I'm  pretty,  because  'tis  a  pleasure, 
My  darling,  to  you! 

Your  whim  is  for  frolic  and  fashion, 
Your  taste  is  for  letters  and  art; — 

This  rhyme  is  the  commonplace  passion 
That  glows  in  a  fond  woman's  heart  : 

Lay  it  by  in  some  sacred  deposit 
For  relics  —  we  all  have  a  few! 

Love,  some  day  they'll  print  it,  because  it 
Was  written  to  you. 


x868. 


A  RHYME  OF  ONE. 


YOU  sleep  upon  your  mother's  breast, 
Your  race  begun, 
A  welcome,  long  a  wisli'd-for  guest, 
Whose  age  is  One. 

A  baby-boy,  you  wonder  why 

You  cannot  run; 
You  try  to  talk — how  hard  you  try! — 

You're  only  One. 

Ere  long  you  won't  be  such  a  dunce ; 

You'll  eat  your  bun, 
And  fly  your  kite,  like  folk,  who  once 

Were  only  One. 
80 


<^  'T{hyme  of  One. 


You'll  rhyme,  and  woo,  and  fight,  and  jok 

Perhaps  you'll  pun  ! 
Such  feats  are  never  done  by  folk 

Before  they're  One. 

Some  day,  too,  you  may  have  your  joy. 

And  envy  none; 
Yes,  you,  yourself,  may  own  a  boy. 

Who  isn't  One. 

He'll  dance,  and  laugh,  and  crow,  he'll  do 

As  you  have  done : 
(You  crown  a  happy  home,  tho'  you 

Are  only  One). 

But  when  he's  grown  shall  you  be  here 

To  share  his  fun. 
And  talk  of  times  when  he  (the  dear!) 

Was  hardly  One  ? 

Dear  child,  'tis  your  poor  lot  to  be 

My  little  son; 
I'm  glad,  though  I  am  old,  you  see, — 

While  you  are  One. 


ANY  POET  TO  HIS  LOVE. 


IMMORTAL  VERSE  !   Is  mine  the  strain 
To  last  and  live  ?    As  ages  wane 
Will  one  be  found  to  twine  the  bays, 
And  praise  me  then  as  now  you  praise  ? 

Will  there  be  one  to  praise  ?    Ah  no  ! 
My  laurel  leaf  may  never  grow; 
My  bust  is  in  the  quarry  yet, — 
Oblivion  weaves  my  coronet. 

Immortal  for  a  month — a  week! 

The  garlands  wither  as  I  speak; 

The  song  will  die,  the  harp's  unstrung, — 

But,  singing,  have  I  vainly  sung? 

You  deign'd  to  lend  an  ear  the  while 
I  trill'd  my  lay.    I  won  your  smile. 
Now,  let  it  die,  or  let  it  live, — 
My  verse  was  all  I  had  to  give. 

The  linnet  flies  on  wistful  wings, 
And  finds  a  bower,  and  lights  and  sings; 
Enough  if  my  poor  verse  endures 
To  light  and  live  —  to  die  in  yours. 

1875. 

82 


LITTLE  DINKY. 


(a  rhyme  of  less  than  one.) 

HE  hair  she  means  to  have  is  gold, 
Her  eyes  are  blue,  she's  twelve  weeks  old, 
Plump  are  her  fists  and  pinky. 
She  fluttered  down  in  lucky  hour 
From  some  blue  deep  in  yon  sky  bower  — 
I  call  her  Little  Dinky. 

83 


84 


Little  Dinky. 


A  Tiny  now,  ere  long  she'll  please 
To  totter  at  my  parent-knees, 

And  crow,  and  try  to  chatter: 
And  soon  she'll  take  to  fair  white  frocks, 
And  frisk  about  in  shoes  and  socks, — 

Her  totter  changed  to  patter. 

And  soon  she'll  play,  ay,  soon  enough, 
At  cowslip-ball  and  blindman's  buff; 

And  some  day,  we  shall  find  her 
Grow  weary  of  her  toys,  indeed 
She'll  fling  them  all  aside  to  heed 

A  footstep  close  behind  her. 

As  time  runs  on  she'll  still  be  rich 

In  much  that's  left,  the  joys  with  which 

Our  love  can  aye  supply  us ; 
For  hand  in  hand  we'll  sit  us  down 
Right  cheerfully,  and  let  the  town  — 

This  foolish  town,  go  by  us. 

.Dinky,  we  must  resign  our  toys 
To  younger  girls,  to  finer  boys. 

But  we'' II  not  care  a  feather. 
For  then  {reflection'' s  not  regret) 
Though  you'll  be  rather  old!  we'' II  yet 

Be  Boy  and  girl  together. 


Little  Dinky. 


85 


As  I  was  climbing  Ludgate  Hill 
I  met  a  goose  who  dropt  a  quill, 

You  see  my  thumb  is  inky : 
I  fell  to  scribble  there  and  then, 
And  this  is  how  I  came  to  pen 

These  rhymes  on  Little  Dinky. 


,  1878. 


MY  SONG. 


YOU  ask  a  song, 
Such  as  of  yore,  an  autumn's  eventide, 
Some  blest  boy-poet  carroll'd, —  and  then  died, 
Nay,  /  have  sung  too  long. 

Say,  shall  I  fling 
A  sigh  to  Beauty  at  her  window-pane? 
I  sang  there  once,  might  I  not  once  again? — 

Or  tell  me  whom  to  sing. 

The  peer  of  Peers  ? 
Lord  of  the  wealth  that  gives  his  time  employ  — 
Time  to  possess,  but  hardly  to  enjoy  — 

He  cannot  need  my  tears. 

The  man  of  mind^ 
Or  priest,  who  darkens  what  is  clear  as  day  ? 
I  cannot  sing  them,  yet  I  will  not  say 

Such  guides  are  wholly  blind. 
86 


(My  Song. 


87 


The  Orator? 
He  quiet  lies  where  yon  fresh  hillock  heaves  : 
'Twere  well  to  sprinkle  there  those  laurel-leaves 

He  won, — but  never  wore. 

Or  shall  I  twine 
The  Cypress  ?    Wreath  of  glory  and  of  gloom, — 
To  march  a  gallant  soldier  to  his  doom, 

Needs  fuller  voice  than  mine. 

No  lay  have  I, 
No  murmured  measure  meet  for  your  delight, 
No  song  of  Love  and  Death,  to  make  you  quite 

Forget  that  we  must  die. 

Something  is  wrong, — 
The  world  is  over-wise;  or,  more's  the  pity, 
These  days  are  far  too  busy  for  a  ditty, 

Yet  take  it, —  take  my  Song. 

1876. 


THE  JESTER'S  MORAL. 

IS  human  life  a  pleasant  game 
That  gives  the  palm  to  all? 
A  fight  for  fortune,  or  for  fame, 

A  struggle,  and  a  fall? 
Who  views  the  Past,  and  all  he  prized, 

With  tranquil  exultation  ? 
And  who  can  say — Pve  realised 
My  fondest  aspiration  ? 

Alas,  not  one.    No,  rest  assured 

That  all  are  prone  to  quarrel 
With  fate,  when  worms  destroy  their  gourd, 

Or  mildew  spoils  their  laurel: 


The  fester's  {Moral.  89 


The  prize  may  come  to  cheer  our  lot, 
But  all  too  late;  and  granted 

If  even  better,  still  it's  not 
Exactly  what  we  wanted. 

My  schoolboy  time!    I  wish  to  praise 

That  bud  of  brief  existence, — 
The  vision  of  my  younger  days 

Now  trembles  in  the  distance. 
An  envious  vapour  lingers  here, 

And  there  I  find  a  chasm; 
But  much  remains,  distinct  and  clear, 

To  sink  enthusiasm. 

Such  thoughts  just  now  disturb  my  soul 

With  reason  good,  for  lately 
I  took  the  train  to  Marley-knoU, 

And  cross'd  the  fields  to  Mately. 
I  found  old  Wheeler  at  his  gate, 

He  once  rare  sport  could  show  me : 
My  Mentor  too  on  springe  and  bait — 

But  Wheeler  did  not  know  me. 

"  Goodlord ! "  at  last  exclaim'd  the  churl, 
"Are  you  the  little  chap,  sir, 

What  used  to  train  his  hair  in  curl. 
And  wore  a  scarlet  cap,  sir  ?  " 

12 


The  fester's  zMoral. 


And  then  he  took  to  fill  in  blanks, 

And  conjure  up  old  faces; 
And  talk  of  well-remember'd  pranks 

In  half-forgotten  places. 

It  pleased  the  man  to  tell  his  brief 

And  rather  mournful  story, — 
Old  Bliss's  school  had  come  to  grief. 

And  Bliss  had  "gone  to  glory." 
Fell'd  were  his  trees,  his  house  was  razed. 

And  what  less  keenly  pain'd  me, 
A  venerable  donkey  grazed 

Exactly  where  he  caned  me. 

And  where  have  all  my  plajnnates  sped, 

Whose  ranks  were  once  so  serried  ? 
Why  some  are  wed,  and  some  are  dead, 

And  some  are  only  buried; 
Frank  Petre,  then  so  full  of  fun. 

Is  now  -5*/.  Blaise's  prior, 
And  Travers,  the  attorney's  son. 

Is  member  for  the  shire. 

Dull  maskers  we  —  Life's  festival 
Enchants  the  blithe  new-comer; 

But  seasons  change; — oh  where  are  all 
Those  friendships  of  our  summer? 


fhe  fester's  zMoral.  91 


Wan  pilgrims  flit  athwart  our  track, 
Cold  looks  attend  the  meeting; 

We  only  greet  them,  glancing  back, 
Or  pass  without  a  greeting. 

Old  Bliss  I  owe  some  rubs,  but  pride 

Constrains  me  to  postpone  'em, — 
Something  he  taught  me,  ere  he  died, 

About  nil  nisi  bonum. 
I've  met  with  wiser,  better  men. 

But  I  forgive  him  wholly  ; 
Perhaps  his  jokes  were  sad,  but  then 

He  used  to  storm  so  drolly. 

"/  still  can  laugh  "  is  still  my  boast. 

But  mirth  has  sounded  gayer; 
And  which  provokes  my  laughter  most, 

The  preacher  or  the  player  ? 
Alack,  I  cannot  laugh  at  what 

Once  made  us  laugh  so  freely; 
For  Nestroy  and  Grassot  are  not — 

And  where  is  Mr.  Keeley? 

I'll  join  St.  Blaise  (a  verseman  fit. 

More  fit  than  I,  once  did  it) 
— /  shave  my  crown  ?   No,  Common  Wit, 

And  Common  Sense  forbid  it. 


92  7he  fester's  (Moral 


I'd  sooner  dress  your  little  Miss 
As  Paulet  shaves  his  poodles ! 

As  soon  propose  for  Betsy  Bliss, 
Or  get  proposed  for  Boodle's, 

We  prate  of  Life's  illusive  dyes, 

And  yet  fond  Hope  misleads  us ; 
We  all  believe  we  near  the  prize, 

Till  some  fresh  dupe  succeeds  us ! 
And  yet,  tho'  Life's  a  riddle,  though 

No  clerk  has  yet  explained  it, 
I  still  can  hope;  for  well  I  know 

That  Love  has  thus  ordain'd  it. 


Paris,  November,  1864. 


TO    LINA  OSWALD. 


(aged  five  years.) 

X TUMBLE  out  of  bed  betimes 
To  make  my  love  these  toddling  rhymes  ; 
And  meet  the  hour  and  meet  the  place 
To  bless  her  blythe  good-morning  face. 
I  send  her  all  this  heart  can  store; 
I  seem  to  see  her  as  before, 
An  angel-child,  divinely  fair, 
With  meek  blue  eyes,  and  golden  hair. 
Curls  tipt  with  changing  light,  that  shed 
A  little  glory  round  her  head. 

Has  poet  ever  sung  or  seen  a 
Sweeter,  wiser  child  than  Lina? 
Blue  are  her  sash  and  snood,  and  blue's 
The  hue  of  her  bewitching  shoes ; 
But,  saving  these,  she's  virgin  dight, 
A  happy  creature  clad  in  white. 

Again  she  stands  beneath  the  boughs, 
Reproves  the  pup,  and  feeds  the  cows ; 
93 


94 


7b  Lina  Oswald, 


Un vexed  by  rule,  un  scared  by  ill, 
She  wanders  at  her  own  sweet  will; 
For  what  grave  fiat  could  confine 
My  little  charter'd  libertine, 
Yet  free  from  feeling  or  from  seeing 
The  burthen  of  her  moral  being  ? 

But  change  must  come,  and  forms  and  dyes 
Will  change  before  her  changing  eyes ; 
She'll  learn  to  blush,  and  hope,  and  fear  — 
And  where  shall  I  be  then,  my  dear  ? 

Little  gossip,  set  apart 

But  one  small  corner  of  thy  heart; 

Still  there  is  one  not  quite  employ'd, 

So  let  me  find  and  fill  that  void ; 

Run  then,  and  jump,  and  laugh,  and  play, 

But  love  me  though  I'm  far  away. 

Broomhall,  September,  1868. 


REPLY  TO  A  LETTER  ENCLOSING 
A  LOCK  OF  HAIR. 


She  laugKd — she  climb' d  ike  giddy  height ; — 

/  held  that  climber  small ; 
I  even  held  her  rather  tight. 

For  fear  that  she  should  fall. 
A  dozen  girls  -were  chirping  round. 

Like  five-and-twenty  linnets  ; — 
/  must  have  held  her,  I'll  be  bound. 

Some  ftve-atid-twenty  minutes. 


YES,  you  were  false,  and,  if  I'm  free, 
I  still  would  be  the  slave  of  yore ; 
Then,  join'd,  our  years  were  thirty-three, 

And  now, —  yes  now,  I'm  thirty-four. 
And  though  you  were  not  learnM — well, 

I  was  not  anxious  you  should  grow  so ; — 
I  trembled  once  beneath  her  spell 
Whose  spelling  was  extremely  so-so. 

Bright  season !  why  will  Memory 

Still  haunt  the  path  our  rambles  took, — 

The  sparrow's  nest  that  made  you  cry, 
The  lilies  captured  in  the  brook? 
95 


%_eply  to  a  Letter. 


I'd  lifted  you  from  side  to  side, 

(You  seem'd  as  light  as  that  poor  sparrow;) 
I  know  who  wish'd  it  twice  as  wide, 

I  think  you  thought  it  rather  narrow. 

Time  was,  indeed  a  little  while, 

My  pony  could  your  heart  compel; 
And  once,  beside  the  meadow-stile, 

I  thought  you  loved  me  just  as  well; 
I'd  kiss'd  your  cheek;  in  sweet  surprise 

Your  troubled  gaze  said  plainly,  "  Should  he  ?  " 
But  doubt  soon  fled  those  daisy  eyes, — 

"He  could  not  mean  to  vex  me,  could  he?  " 

The  brightest  eyes  are  soonest  sad, 

But  your  rose  cheek,  so  lightly  sway'd, 
Could  ripple  into  dimples  glad ; 

For  oh,  fair  friend,  what  mirth  we  made! 
The  brightest  tears  are  soonest  dried. 

But  your  young  love  and  dole  were  stable; 
You  wept  when  dear  old  Rover  died. 

You  wept — and  dress 'd  your  dolls  in  sable. 

As  year  succeeds  to  year,  the  more 

Imperfect  life's  fruition  seems; 
Our  dreams,  as  baseless  as  of  yore. 

Are  not  the  same  enchanting  dreams. 
The  girls  I  love  now  vote  me  slow — 

How  dull  the  boys  who  once  seem'd  witty! 
Perhaps  I'm  growing  old,  I  know 

I'm  still  romantic,  more's  the  pity. 


'^eply  to  a  Letter. 


Vain  the  regret  —  To  few,  perchance, 

Unknown,  and  profitless  to  all: 
The  wisely-gay,  as  years  advance, 

Are  gaily-wise.  Whate'er  befall, 
We'll  laugh  at  folly,  whether  seen 

Under  a  chimney  or  a  steeple ; 
At  yours,  at  mine  —  our  own,  I  mean, 

As  well  as  that  of  other  people. 

I'm  fond  of  fun,  the  mental  dew 

Where  wit,  and  truth,  and  ruth  are  blent 
And  yet  I've  known  a  prig  or  two. 

Who,  wanting  all,  were  all  content ! 
To  say  I  hate  such  dismal  men 

Might  be  esteem'd  a  strong  assertion; 
If  I've  blue  devils,  now  and  then, 

I  make  them  dance  for  my  diversion. 

And  here's  your  letter  debonair  — 

^^My  friend,  my  dear  old  friend  of  yore,^^ 
And  is  this  curl  your  daughter's  hair? 

I've  seen  the  Titian  tint  before. 
Are  we  the  pair  that  used  to  pass 

Long  days  beneath  the  chestnut  shady  ? 
Then  you  were  such  a  pretty  lass  — 

I'm  told  you're  now  as  fair  a  lady. 

I've  laugh'd  to  hide  the  tear  I  shed, 
As  when  the  Jester's  bosom  swells. 

And  mournfully  he  shakes  his  head, 
We  hear  the  jingle  of  his  bells. 
13 


%eply  to  a  Letter. 


A  jesting  vein  your  poet  vex'd, 

And  this  poor  rhyme,  the  Fates  determine, 
Without  a  parson  or  a  text, 

Has  proved  a  rather  prosy  sermon. 

1859. 


THE  CUCKOO. 


Vj  I  *E  heard  it  calling,  clear  and  low, 
^JcAf    That  tender  April  morn ;  we  stood 
And  listened  in  the  quiet  wood, 
We  heard  it,  ay,  long  years  ago. 

It  came,  and  with  a  strange,  sweet  cry, 
A  friend,  but  from  a  far-off  land ; 
We  stood  and  listened,  hand  in  hand, 

And  heart  to  heart,  my  Love  and  I. 
99 


lOO 


The  Cuckoo. 


In  dreamland  then  we  found  our  joy, 
And  so  it  seem'd  as  'twere  the  Bird 
That  Helen  in  old  times  had  heard 

At  noon  beneath  the  oaks  of  Troy. 

O  time  far  off,  and  yet  so  near  ! 
It  came  to  her  in  that  hush'd  grove, 
It  warbled  while  the  wooing  throve, 

It  sang  the  song  she  loved  to  hear. 

And  now  I  hear  its  voice  again, 
And  still  its  message  is  of  peace. 
It  sings  of  love  that  will  not  cease  — 

For  me  it  never  sings  in  vain. 


NOTES. 


"A  Human  Skull." 

"  In  our  last  month's  Magazine  you  may  remember  there 
were  some  verses  about  a  portion  of  a  skeleton.  Did  you  remark 
how  the  poet  and  present  proprietor  of  the  human  skull  at  once 
settled  the  sex  of  it,  and  determined  ofF-hand  that  it  must  have 
belonged  to  a  woman  ?  Such  skulls  are  locked  up  in  many 
gentlemen's  hearts  and  memories.  Bluebeard,  you  know,  had 
a  whole  museum  of  them  —  as  that  imprudent  little  last  wife  of 
his  found  out  to  her  cost.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  a  lady,  we 
suppose,  would  select  hers  of  the  sort  which  had  carried  beards 
when  in  the  flesh." — Adventures  of  Philip  on  his  Way  through 
the  World.    Cornhill  Magazine,  January,  l8bi.* 

"To  My  Mistress." 

M.  Deschanel  quotes  the  following  charming  little  poem  by 
Comeille,  addressed  to  a  young  lady  who  had  not  been  quite 
civil  to  him.     He  says  with  truth — "Le  sujet  est  leger,  le 


*  When  I  first  sent  these  lines  posed  an  alteration  in  the  third 

to  the  Cornhill  Magazine,  Mr.  stanza,  and  he  returned  it  to 

Thackeray,  the  editor,  and  an  me  as  it  now  stands.  Originally 

admirable  judge  of  verse,  pro-  I  had  made  it  to  run  thus  : — 

Did  she  live  yesterday,  or  ages  sped  ? 

What  colour  were  the  eyes  when  bright  and  waking? 
And  were  your  ringlets  fair  ?    Poor  little  head  ! 

—  Poor  little  heart!  that  long  has  done  with  aching. 

lOI 


I02  litotes. 


rhythme  court,  mais  on  y  retrouve  la  fierte  de  rhomme,  et  aussi 
I'ampleur  du  tragique."  The  last  four  stanzas,  in  particular, 
are  brimful  of  spirit,  and  the  mixture  of  pride  and  vanity  they 
display  is  remarkable. 

"  Marquise,  si  mon  visage 
A  quelques  traits  un  peu  vieux, 
Souvenez-vous,  qu'a  mon  age 
Vous  ne  vaudrez  guere  mieux. 

"  Le  temps  aux  plus  belles  choses 
Se  plait  a  faire  un  affront, 
Et  saura  faner  vos  roses 
Comme  il  a  ride  mon  front. 

**  Le  meme  cours  des  planetes 
Regie  nos  jours  et  nos  nuits; 
On  m'a  vu  ce  que  vous  etes, 
Vous  serez  ce  que  je  suis. 

"  Cependant  j'ai  quelques  charmes 
Qui  sont  assez  eclatants 
Pour  n'avoir  pas  trop  d'alarmes 
De  ces  ravages  du  temps, 

"  Vous  en  avez  qu'on  adore, 
Mais  ceux  que  vous  meprisez 
Pourraient  bien  durer  encore 
Quand  ceux-la  seront  uses. 

"  lis  pourront  sauver  la  gloire 
Des  yeux  qui  me  semblent  doux, 
Et  dans  mille  ans  faire  croire 
Ce  qu'il  me  plaira  de  vous. 

"  Chez  cette  race  nouvelle 
Ou  j'aurai  quelque  credit, 
Vous  ne  passerez  pour  belle 
Qu'autant  que  je  I'aurai  dit. 


V^otes.  103 


"  Pensez-y,  belle  Marquise, 
Quoiqu'un  grison  fasse  effroi, 
II  vaut  qu'on  le  courrise 
Quand  il  est  fait  comme  moi." 


"A  Garden  Lyric." 

When  these  verses  appeared  in  Macmillan' s  Magazine,  they 
ran  as  follows,  but  many  of  my  readers  could  not  see  the  point, 
and  others,  seeing  it,  disliked  it  so  heartily,  that  I  altered  them 
in  sheer  vexation;  now  they  have  two  readings,  and  can  take 
their  choice. 


GERALDINE  AND  I. 


Di  te,  Damasippe,  deaeque 
Verum  ob  consilium  donent  tonsore. 


I  HAVE  talk'd  with  her  often  in  noon-day  heat. 

We  have  walk'd  under  wintry  skies ; 
Her  voice  is  the  dearest  voice,  and  sweet 

Is  the  light  in  her  gentle  eyes; 
It  is  bliss  in  the  silent  woods,  among 

Gay  crowds,  or  in  any  place, 
To  mould  her  mind,  to  gaze  in  her  young 
Confiding  face. 

For  ever  may  roses  divinely  blow, 

And  wine-dark  pansies  charm 
By  that  prim  box  path  where  I  felt  the  glow 

Of  her  dimpled,  trusting  arm. 
And  the  sweep  of  her  silk  as  she  tum'd  and  smiled 

A  smile  as  fair  as  her  pearls; 
The  breeze  was  in  love  with  the  darling  child, 
And  coax'd  her  curls. 

She  show'd  me  her  ferns  and  woodbine  sprays, 

Foxglove  and  jasmine  stars, 
A  mist  of  blue  in  the  beds,  a  blaze 

Of  red  in  the  celadon  jars  ; 


I04  tt^otes. 


And  velvety  bees  in  convolvulus  bells. 

And  roses  of  bountiful  Spring. 
But  I  said — "Though  roses  and  bees  have  spells, 
They  have  thorn  and  sting." 

She  show'd  me  ripe  peaches  behind  a  net 

As  fine  as  her  veil,  and  fat 
Gold  fish  a-gape,  who  lazily  met 

For  her  crumbs — I  grudged  them  that! 
A  squirrel,  some  rabbits  with  long  lop  ears. 

And  guinea-pigs,  tortoise-shell — ^wee; 
And  I  told  her  that  eloquent  truth  inheres 
In  all  we  see. 

I  lifted  her  doe  by  its  lops,  quoth  I, 

"Even  here  deep  meaning  lies, — 
Why  have  squirrels  these  ample  tails,  and  why 

Have  rabbits  these  prominent  eyes  ?  " 
She  smiled  and  said,  as  she  twirl'd  her  veil, 

"  For  some  nice  little  cause,  no  doubt — 
If  you  lift  a  guinea-pig  up  by  the  tail 
His  eyes  drop  out !  " 

1868. 

"  St,  James's  Street." 

I  HOPE  my  readers,  whoever  they  may  be,  will  not  credit  me 
with  all  the  sentiments  expressed  in  this  volume.  I  am  told 
that  these  lines  have  disturbed  some  Americans,  but  surely 
without  cause.  The  remark  in  the  seventh  stanza  is  natural  in 
the  mouth  of  a  rather  exclusive  habitue  of  St.  James's,  who  has 
the  mortification  to  feel  that  he  is  no  longer  young,  who  is  too 
shallow-minded  to  appreciate  our  advance  in  civilisation  during 
the  last  forty  years,  but  who  is  nevertheless  sufficiently  keen  to 
see  what  is  possible  in  the  future.  My  friends  know  I  have  a 
sincere  admiration  for  the  American  people. 

"  A  NICE  Correspondent." 

Ere  long,  perhaps  in  the  next  generation,  the  word  nice,  and 
some  other  equally  common  words,  may  have  passed  into  the 
limbo  of  elegant,  genteel,  See.  Fashions  change,  and  certain 
words  sink  in  the  scale  of  gentility,  and  pass,  like  houses,  into 
the  hands  of  humbler  occupants.    But  what  can  poor  poets  do ! 


PRESS  OF  THEO.  L.  DEVINNE  Sc.  CO.  NEW-YORK. 


